What Friends are For
by That Emperor
Summary: Droog gets drunk and for once it's Slick taking care of moirail instead of the other way around.  request for a friend on DA


**What Friends are For  
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Eyes hooded in an alcoholic daze, Droog slumped forward and retched into the trash bucket.

Slick might have made some tasteless wise-crack about Trolls and their strange bucket aversion, had he not been so terrified. With Boxcars and Deuce out on the town having buddy-buddy time, he was all alone except for Droog, who had somehow gotten himself sickeningly drunk. Slick was used to being the leader, but only when it involved fucking shit up. When it came to fixing something? He was completely clueless. And this was his best friend that needed fixing. That in itself made the situation all the more frightening.

Droog had slipped off the couch and was half-kneeling, half-laying on the floor with his face in the bucket. His shoulders quaked with the dry-heaves as his emptied stomach tried in vain to expel his sickness, and he made a series of awful little sounds Slick never thought a guy like Droog could make.

Slick sighed and looked at his friend, feeling totally helplessness. "Aw, fuck, Droog. What the hell am I gonna do with you?"

Droog made a noise that might have been a reply, but it was so unintelligible that Slick didn't even bother to ponder its meaning. It was probably just Droog's stomach disagreeing with him again, anyway.

Slick took another glance at his friend and shook his head, eyes closed and mouth down-turned in a dismayed frown. He shoved his hands into his pockets and began to pace the room, trying his best to ignore the sour stench of vomit that was just now beginning to reach his nostrils. What the hell had they done for him when _he_ was drunk, Slick wondered. He dug into his mental archive, but any subconscious memory of his friends taking care of his drunk ass failed to surface. This did not come as a surprise to him; after all, he had been drunk. But still, he wished he could at least remember _something_.

Then an idea hit him like a little bolt of lightning. He often felt over-heated and feverish when he had too much to drink, and he would bet all the money in his bank that Droog had a headache like an inferno, and that a cool, damp ice pack against his forehead would feel pretty damn good.

Feeling quite proud of his own quick thinking, he ran to the kitchen and returned moments later carrying an icepack in one hand and a bowl filled with water and a washcloth in the other. He set the objects down beside Droog's drunken form, now totally face-down on the floor, and then gave his friend a jab in the shoulder.

"Hey, asshole! Wake up!" When Droog didn't move, Slick gave him a few forceful prods. "I'm here to wipe off your stupid face and give you some ice. You've go to have a headache by now."

Droog shifted a little, but his only response to Slick's demanding voice was a gurgle that may or not have been a laugh.

"Alright then," Slick barred his fangs and cracked his knuckles, "looks like we're gonna have to do this the hard way."

Slick slid his thin arms under Droog's armpits and hoisted. Droog was heavier than he looked, and Slick weaker than he thought, but after a brief struggle (though, to Slick's aching back it felt like forever) Slick managed to pull his friend into an upright position. With a grunt of effort, Slick then dragged Droog's limp body onto the couch.

Droog blinked and muttered something that vaguely sounded like "thanks" and then slumped sideways, resting his head on the couch's cushioned arm.

"Okay," Slick picked up the bowl and removed the warm, dripping cloth, "hold still while I get this over with."

He began to move in with the cloth, but Droog's hand reached out to stop him. "Schlick, what'r you-"

"I'm trying to clean your nasty-ass, puke-smeared face because you've been upchucking for about half an hour," Slick said, sounding angrier than he actually was. "Now, shut up and let me clean. Damn, it's so fucking weird having you talk like an idiot like this and not the prissy asshole that you are."

Contrary to what Slick expected he would do, Droog willingly complied and shut his mouth while Slick – feeling more than awkward – hastily cleaned his friend's face. But, when he was done and readying the icepack, Droog stopped him yet again.

"What the hell now?" Slick wasn't used to caring for someone like this. It was weird, even if it was Droog, and more than anything he just wanted to finish up the job.

"I-" Droog hiccuped and shuddered, and for a moment Slick feared he'd have to make a mad grab for the trash bucket. "-would like to...go to-" another hiccup. "-bed."

Slick rolled his eyes and tossed the icepack to the floor. "Aw, fuck, you have got to be kidding me! How the fuck am I going to get you up those stairs?"

As if to wordlessly say "I'll walk" Droog began to stand up, only to immediately lose his footing. He stumbled sideways, moving limply like a marionette in unskilled hands.

"Dammit, be careful!" Slick caught him before he could do any serious damage to himself or the furniture, and let Droog lean against him. "Here, put your weight on me. I'll help you up the stairs."

With the influence of the booze beginning to ebb away, getting Droog up to his room was far less challenging than Slick had expected. Awkward? Most definitely, but they managed without incident. When they finally got up to Droog's room – an immaculate display like something pulled right out of a home-improvement magazine – its owner gracelessly plopped down onto his bed in an exhausted heap.

"So, uh, is there anything I can get you?" Slick straightened out his suit to keep his mind off how strange he felt. "Besides the icepack, of course."

Droog spread himself out on the bed, resting his pounding head on his feather pillow. "Ugh. Yeah. My pajamas. Should be in the top draw of my dresser."

Slick shot the oak dresser an uneasy glance. "Please tell me I don't have to help you get dressed." He hated sounding that rude and uncaring. He shook his head and swiftly attempted to amend his words. "I mean, I'll do it if you really need me to do. I just...look, it's awkward, okay?"

Droog chuckled and offered Slick an elusive smile of genuine warmth. "It's fine. I get it. Just get them for me, please. I can dress myself."

Just as Droog had told him, the flannel pajamas printed with a cheesy repeating diamond pattern were folded right on top within the confines of the draw. Slick took them out, ignoring the issue of Grey Ladies hidden beneath them, and set them on the bed beside his friend.

"Alright, I'm gonna go get the ice while you change." Slick turned towards the door but the halted, his hand inches away from the silvery knob, when he heard Droog speak.

"Hey, Slick?"

He turned around, one eyebrow cocked in curiosity. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Oh." He shrugged and grinned, his cheeks flushing. "No problem. You've done this shit enough times for me, the least I can do it do it for you."

Slick slipped away then to retrieve the icepack, and when he came back, he found Droog curled up beneath the blankets, breathing quietly in a deep slumber. Poor bastard must have really been feeling like shit if he fell asleep that fast. He could put that kid from The Felt to shame.

Slick snickered softly to himself when he noticed Droog's dirtied suit was neatly folded at the end of the bed, then he placed the icepack upon his friend's forehead, making sure his touch was gentle so to not rouse the other Dersite from sleep. Then he left as silently as was possible while trying not to smile, because for once he truly felt like he had been a good friend.


End file.
